Wax, Wick, and Flame

They sat for a long while before silence broke. She looked right, left, then put her fingers to her lips as she looked up with tears in her eyes, asking, "What are we?"

Sam controlled his emotion, breathed deeply and said, "We are wax, wick, and flame, made to burn and glow. Then we give up the light. We stand straight in shelter, dance in a draft or out in the open air. We will be remembered how we glowed, bright or dim, and, for some, we will not remembered at all. As for her, darling, we will always remember her vibrant dance and brilliant glow."
. . . . .

Among The Trees

Kit was 11 at the time, and it was just before Dad's 60th birthday. We'd not been back long from Sunday service, when Dad asked Kit if he'd like to come for a walk with him through the woods bordering the lake. Kit said, 'Sure!' Dad smiled at us both and said, 'Well, bring the dog, too!' as he walked down the front steps.

When they returned, Kit talked about the frog he and Dad almost caught with their own hands, and about the small snake that slithered off the path as they approached the road back home.

Then, in a hushed voice, Kit added, 'You know Mom, I asked granddad, 'Why do you spend more time among the trees than you do among people?' And he said, 'Because they're firmly rooted and grow straight up to heaven.' Mom, What did he mean by that?'
. . . . .

experience speaks

After being introduced by Professor Guerrero, the old journalist casually leaned back against the chalkboard with arms crossed and looked over the class of students like a hawk looking for prey. One student began to shift in his chair, two began to cough, then another.

Thinking to himself, "Son los míos", he stood up straight, took three steps forward, and spoke in a voice as strong as Stentor's, "Journalism isn't an art, and it isn't a science. It's a triumph."

The old journalist paused, reviewed the looks of astonishment with satisfaction, then proceeded at a more natural volume, "To any who think journalism is as easy as reading and paper the cost of good writing, I say this, journalism is quite simply chipping away at nothing and coming up with something that keeps the reader glued until the last period, and makes him glad he was. Now you do it."
. . . . .

The Old Priest's Paper

after the funeral of the old priest, two fellow priests dutifully sorted through his meager belongings. they found a torn paper yellowed with age with the following faded penned script.

so be keen my young priest. observe without effort.
observe yourself and others without distinction. we
are all known and know others by these tokens ...

incidental remarks
strong declarations
opinions expressed
gossip spoken

judgements made
biases disclosed
prejudices exhibited
preferences performed

what is accepted
what is tolerated
what is rejected

what is praised
what is accused
what is approved
what is ridiculed

what is forgiven or not
what is excused or not
and what is excused or forgiven but not forgotten

questions not answered
questions evaded
questions given a question
questions given a lie
or the extent of an answer
and by the way an answer is given

how much time spent alone
how much time spent with others

who time is spent with
how much time is spent
how that time is spent
what is said about the time spent
and what is said about the company kept
compared to what may be known later

who is liked of those that don't know they are
and why they are liked
who is disliked of those that don't know they are
and why they are disliked

who is helped, friend, foe, neighbor or stranger
and by what means and extent, or who is not,
and whether the deed or its lost opportunity
is happily remembered, sadly regretted, or forgotten

and remember, my young priest, words are by the
mouth, actions by the entire body. Always best both
mouth and body agree, and wisely. we will speak
of all this more soon.
. . . . .

never-ending competition

A young lady in the back row stood up and asked the professor, 'What types of doctrines do you think currently effect the situation in this country?'

The professor paused for a few seconds then said, 'Let me make what may sound like a poetically naive remark and then, elaborating, answer your question more specifically. There are two types of doctrines that continually compete for influence in human affairs: those that tear and rend, and those that unite and blend.'
. . . . .

sound illumination

This unusually expressive monk finished reading and said, ‘God spoke "Let there be light." Sound illuminates!’ The monk noticed Gretchen's look of surprise. ‘Or perhaps’, added the monk with a subtle smile and more disciplined manner, ‘sound is preeminent to light. His sound calls, there is response, then light is let to be.’
. . . . .

the intimate prayer of exquisite simplicity

As was his particular habit the first evening of each school year, the portly Headmaster strolled with imposing presence and measured footfalls through the school's dormitory biding each new young student an amiable good night.

Approaching the door of the last room, the Headmaster immediately stopped as he overheard the most intimate prayer of exquisite simplicity:

Lord
This is me
This is your's
This is thanks
This is all
Amen

. . . . .

answers to a prayer

[a true story]

There was once a man deeply troubled in love who earnestly asked Heaven to send him the highest angel to help. Then one night an angel came. ¨I am he¨, the angel said. The angel showed this man a vision ~ among others so real ~ of a young man and woman seated at table writing. Standing over them were another young man and woman watching. The angel said, ¨Do as you see. With the woman you love, write all the things you each privately and publicly want and need. Have with you others who know you both. They will insure nothing is left out.¨ Embarrassed, this man asked, ¨Even our most intimate wants and needs?¨ ¨Yes,¨ replied the angel, ¨Then exchange your writings.¨
. . . . .

a eulogy in his own words

'The world has changed. There are few occupations that exist in this day requiring men of the old order. Few jobs still require the raw muscular strength and fear-facing grit that manhood is capable. Sinews of muscle, grunts, and sweat have given way to imperceptible breathing, légèreté on levers, buttons and keyboards, and soothing wisps of refrigerated air.

Firefighters are a remnant of that old order which few want to, or are able to, emulate. These men fight with pike axes, plaster hooks, halagan tools, ladders, hoses, pipes and water against one of the most destructive forces in nature.

But these men aren't defined by their occupation. Their life-risking deeds define their occupation. I know this from observing these men. I know it from experience. I was once one of them.'
. . . . .

grandpa

Grandpa was a lean, hearty man with a 'no-one's fool' gentleness, schooled in common sense and the results of reasoned efforts fired by the love of self-determination. At eighty he had the strength of a man half his age. His personal creed was strong, his code of conduct regarded by many as holy, and his diet rigorous - 'eat anything from the garden, and nothing more.' No drink or smoke passed his lips, nor did bad words.

I came to visit him in his country home bordered by a great garden, a humble estate almost hidden by acres of woodland but for a small break where a railway line could be seen not far beyond. New paint on the house, the weathervane repaired, otherwise it appeared nothing else had changed in five years.

Settled in, I was pleased to visit him and enjoy the country solitude. Grandpa came out to the front porch just as I was sitting comfortably in his old oak rocking chair. As if by the light of heaven, he smiled and said to me, 'Comfort elsewhere is laziness here.' Pointing beyond the garden, Grandpa added, 'Come. Help me with that woodpile over there, then we'll rest.' It was the beginning of many lessons I was to learn on what it is to be free.
. . . . .

the consultant

Gretchen sat down after checking in at the flight counter and looked contemplatively out through the great glass windows of the airport corridor. The sky had a look of washed out blue as the sun burst through clouds like radiant silver. Looking out beyond the black runway at the bleach white snow remaining from the morning, she mused, 'This will be...'

A mobile rang, jarring her. Thinking it was her own, she instinctively reached into her handbag when she heard a strong Texas baritone drawl say 'Hello' from the seat behind her.

The strong voice continued 'yup ... yup ... an'?'

'If she wants a dog to kick, tell'er to go find one that's agreeable.'

'Hmm. She wants the burly butcher with the manhood of a eunuch.'

He chuckled.

'Politics is war, my friend, and she wants a tea party, so ...'

'No, Jack, and she ain't gonna win the primary by ... excuse me, Jack ...'

'Look what the other side of the aisle has. Those two aren't women. They're carnivores. Hell, they eat their own. And she hopes to be fightin' one of'em in the general.'

'Then tell her to fire her staff, and hire people with thick hides, stainless steel backbones, cast iron guts, and brawny brains.'

'Go soft soap someone else, if you think ...'

'It's possible.'

'Let's get things straight, Jack. I'll cancel this flight out and return, under these conditions ...'

'Wait a ...'

He breathed a deep sigh.

'I don't get involved in office politics.'

'You know my rule. I set up the expectations and contract to reflect it.'

'She knew my reputation comin' in. She knows how I work. I told her strategy, tactics, counsel, advice, recommendations, findin's, criticisms and critiques will serve her campaign, her platform, her personal interests, her alone, an'll be objective to boot. And one proof of it is that everyone in'er camp will probably find somethin' that'll piss'em off.'

'Their karma ain't tailored for me. It'll be their problem.'

'Then let me explain matters this way, Jack. She has a target for me to hit. She has one chance at it. I won't spend my time ridin' and guidin' an arrow to dodge in an' out, up an' down an' around some dumb jackass wannabe campaign gurus that get in the way of the bullseye. If I have to, I'll shoot'em first, then shoot the target. Get the picture?'

'You know better. I don't make friends with competin' agendas. And I can't be bought with a pretty face, so don't pull that bunny from the hat again. My name's worth more than a twenty minute carnival ride.'

His laugh was long and barely audible.

'Stop. You made your point.'

'Sure. Everybody wants the best. But some want the best advisor, others, the best mascot. She needs to make a choice and keep it.'

'I didn't hear ya ... she's on the ... take your time. I'll wait.'

'You certain?'

'Then she's mine, lock, stock and barrell. And she'll win. And, Jack, the fee just went up 20.'

'Yes. We understand each other. We always have.'

'Let me know if she accepts the bump.'

'Oh, I'll be here waitin'. Take all the time you need of the next fifteen minutes you got before this flight leaves.'
. . . . .

objects of remarks

He looked over the top of the magazine he was reading and added, 'After 30 years of practice, Freud couldn't figure out what women wanted.' With a shrug, she replied in a bored tone, 'It doesn't matter. They'll never get it.'
. . . . .

words

The young woman suddenly said in a tone of emphatic disgust, 'Words mean nothing.' The old gentleman looked across her face, then into her eyes compassionately, and replied with calm certainty, 'Words are deeds that dismay or inspire. Words are acts that kindly touch or rudely slap.'
. . . . .

the whole is in the parts

She looked me studiously in the eyes and asked, "Is the sum greater than the whole?" Caught off guard by the sudden turn in our conversation, I replied with a question. "What flies, the feathers or the bird?" She mused for a second, faintly laughed, then leaned forward and said with a smile, "The feathers are only one portion of all that makes a bird." Smiling back, I asked, "What flies, all that makes a bird or the bird?"
. . . . .

a choice before you go

An angel suddenly appeared to a man in the middle of the night and declared, "Death is immanent. Choose now before you die: repent or forgive." Gripped with astonishment then slowly resigned to an inevitable fate, the man considered his common humanity and replied to the angel, "I forgive all who sinned against me." "Well chosen," replied the angel, "for there is repentance in it."

rock in the goose down pillow

The corporation had been too long in grave financial trouble. Eventually the board did what it must do and sacked the CEO.

After scouring for the best candidate they could find, the board hired a new CEO. The new CEO was a soft spoken, pleasant man, who, with a number of changes, quickly made his mark in the C-suite. One change was a highly progressive open door policy, where anyone in the company was welcome to speak with him in his office.

But it wouldn't be long before the entire company was abuzz about one conspicuous item in the CEO's office.

Hanging on the wall behind his desk was a very, very large, beautifully framed, magnificently designed graphic that read:

In controversial moments
My judgements rather fine,
I always see both points of view,
The one that's wrong and mine.

. . . . .

the diary

[written at mystique cafe in a country far, far away on a lonely, gray day]

Gretchen and I were traveling through the Holland countryside on our way to Amsterdam when our rental car's heater hose ruptured. I hailed a passing car and had the good fortune the gentleman stopped and spoke enough English for us to communicate. He called from his mobile for help, and a half hour later we were towed to a village not far from the thoroughfare. With one call to the rental agency the village mechanic was authorized to repair the broken hose. Gretchen and I decided to explore the shops while we waited. She went to a craft shop, while I was drawn to the bookshop next door.

I entered to meet a young woman coming from the back room who could tell from my poorly spoken French greeting I was a Brit. 'You are British, monsieur?' 'I am.' Playfully, she replied, 'Then let us speak English.' After small chatter about the village and shop, she explained that I was the first 'Englishman' to be in the shop since 1915. Indifferent, I awkwardly thanked her for bringing it to my attention.

After brief silence, she continued, explaining that her family four generations earlier had been deeply affected by a young British officer badly wounded near the beginning of the war. From what she described, in spite of his severe wounds, he exhibited extraordinary character and had a quiescent, peaceful presence - an inner certainty and dignity that seemed to overtake any who came to his bedside.

My curiosity roused, I rattled off some questions. Smiling, she raised her right hand up slowly to me and said, 'Wait! I will show you our family's greatest treasure.' She left for the back room. Flushed with mild irritation, I thought, 'How I hate non sequiturs.'

She returned with an old untitled leather cover book with a dark stain on its lower spine and front cover. Running her hand slowly across the front of the book, she said, 'This was the Englishman's blood.' Placing the book in my hands, she said, 'Open.'

Opening the book, I saw what looked like a diary entry at the top of the page dated 21 August 1914. The young lady laughed gently with pleasure. I looked up and only saw bright eyes. 'You are a blessed man!' 'Why?' I asked. Leaning forward, she spoke softly, 'You have begun well, monsieur.' Then moving her hands as if shooing me away, she continued, 'Now read!' And so I did.

21 August 1914 Calcutta

Our final overture to sense and reason failed. Father's will has prevailed. Cogshall and I must return to England forthwith. Such a father and patron exasperates. Our studies end before begun. One more son from the family for another war? We leave tomorrow.

22 August 1914 Calcutta

Arrived at the railway station to a most singular event. One of our trunks was so heavy that two porters had difficulty removing it carefully from the cart. Impatient, the station master yelled at them with resounding ferocity. The usually reticent Dr Cogshall, annoyed by the ill mannered station master, sternly retorted in Hindi, 'Leave them be!' The station master stood astonished, then slowly turned his back and walked away. The two porters continued with conspicuous equanimity. When they finished, I asked Cogshall to ask them from whence they acquired such extraordinary dispositions. Cogshall spoke to them in Hindi. With subtle smiles, they both turned from Cogshall to me, peered into my eyes, and answered as if in song as one man. From his extraordinary memory and wit, Cogshall has given me this translation.

porter 1 ~ be still in movement
porter 2 ~ move in stillness
porter 1 ~ seeing all destinies
porter 2 ~ be not in nor out
porter 1 ~ be here and there now
porter 2 ~ there is rest in movement
porter 1 ~ when you are still
porter 2 ~ this stillness is clarity
porter 1 ~ murmuring shadows
porter 2 ~ banished from self
porter 1 ~ is translucence
porter 2 ~ stillness - no commotion
porter 1 ~ silence - no dissent
porter 2 ~ then perception clear
porter 1 ~ then thought timeless
porter 2 ~ then action grace
porter 1 ~ then speech true
porter 2 ~ this is called
porter 1 ~ life without a shell
porter 2 ~ this is called
porter 1 ~ indefectible peace
porter 2 ~ this is called
porter 1 ~ extensible existence
porter 2 ~ this is called
porter 1 ~ the atom of being
porter 2 ~ this is called
porter 1 ~ the power of power
porter 2 ~ we call it
porter 1 ~ living
porter 1 & 2 ~ in the origination of existence

I am captivated. Ready to pay the cost for Father's certain anger, I have decided to delay our travels, to meet with these two men tomorrow. I must learn what they know.

23 August 1914 Calcutta
. . . . .

tale of a sweet talking frog

[my rendering of an old tale]

Long, long ago, deep in a forest a league or more from the earls's great castle was a little humble rustic village. And in this little humble rustic village lived a quaint little old man with a particular habit.

Every morning, if the weather be fair mind you, the old man with staff in hand went down a well trodden path that meandered through the forest whilst listening to the chirpping of birds and watching shafts of sunlight glowing through limbs and leaves.

On one particular morning walk, or better said a shuffle, the old man heard a voice that said so sweetly, 'If you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful young maiden and be your's forever.'

The old man, startled, stopped, pulled the back of his pants up with one hand, and looked about to find from whence this sweet voice spoke. With no success, the old man continued, staff firmly in hand, when again he heard, 'If you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful young maiden and be your's forever.'

Again the old man stopped, scratched the top of his head, and looked around. Glancing to the ground whilst now rubbing his chin he saw a large green frog with large green eyes batting its long green eyelashes, that said, 'Sir', with emphasis, 'if you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful young maiden and be your's forever.'

The old man, first startled, now excited, without a reply picked up the large green frog, put it in his pouch, and rushed back to the village as quickly as his old feet could shuffle.

Whilst shuffling from the forest to the small open field that led to the village green, the old man saw two of his dearest friends sitting on an old log by the edge of the green. He approached them with a hearty greeting and told them his story of the talking frog. Mute, they stared at him in disbelief, turned to each other nearly nose to nose, then suddenly burst out laughing so uncontrollably that they both nearly fell off the log.

With a slight squint of the eye and nod of the head, the old man spoke, 'I tell the truth and so will prove!', and forthwith, like sleight of hand, pulled the large green frog out from his pouch. There it was, in his hand, batting its long green eyelashes, saying with mild but noticeable impatience, 'Sir, if you kiss me I will turn into a beautiful young maiden and be your's forever.'

Starring at the large green frog with large green eyes batting its eyelashes, the old man's friends rose to his side and nudged him with their elbows shouting, 'Well aren't you going to kiss the frog? Kiss the frog! Aren't you going to kiss the frog?'

The old man looked up at his two dear friends and replied, 'Are you daft? At my age? I would rather a talking frog.'

roots to conceit

There once was a tree regarded by the other trees in the forest to be mighty in stature and magnificent in form. With each new spring, he appreciatively mused over the adoration he received, and in time this turned into such a deep rooted conceit that it superseded interest in the very roots that bore him. "Why, what started me has no resemblance to what I have become", thought the tree. His thought and attention were so focused on his grand foliage and great sprawling limbs that he grew farther from what he was. As time passed, he lost his remembrance of what made him, and slowly lost what he really was. He had become his praise.

flipping the koan

The old Zen master asked, "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" The young village boy shrugged his shoulders and replied, "It depends Master; is it clapping against my cheek?"